Emergency Stop
by Lucida Bright
Summary: How will Gene react when he has to hand the keys of the Quattro to Alex for a chase over dangerous terrain? What has a sheep got to do with anything?
1. Chapter 1

_This is an alternative, and much shorter journey for Gene & Alex to that of Storm in a D-Cup; they are the same characters - same history, same relationship, same attitudes. This story starts at the same time as Storm, but in a parallel universe. One of two short fics inspired by recent weather. __With thanks, as ever, to my fab beta Wombledon. The characters of Gene Hunt, Alex Drake and the Quattro belong firmly to Monastic and Kudos – thanks for letting me borrow them. The storyline and other characters are my fault, although I can't be held responsible for the road from Tregaron to Beulah, which is one of Wales's secret weapons. This is a two-part story._

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_16__th__ January 1982_

They had no trouble finding the scene when they finally reached Tregaron: the three patrol cars slewed across the narrow street were a bit of a giveaway in a village that could fit on two rugby pitches. Maybe one pitch. Gene stopped his red Audi Quattro behind one of the white police cars; he and Alex got out and went to join the knot of Welsh plods peering up at the first floor window of a weathered stone house.

The pair had been driving for over six hours with only ten minutes break to refuel since leaving London, and the last two hours had been fractious, with Gene disputing Alex's navigation at every turn. Facing a killer seemed like light relief by contrast. It was a bleak January afternoon, the wind gusting hard, bringing a storm from the north, with freezing rain forecast across the country. Gene flipped up the collar of his black coat, and Alex shrugged on a thin quilted jacket that was unequal to the wind.

At their arrival, a police sergeant turned, and seeing Gene, broke into a broad grin. 'DCI Hunt, as I live and breathe.'

Gene peered at him. The man, who was built like a brick shithouse, looked faintly familiar.

'Sergeant Teale. Claud Teale. Constable Teale when I was at GMP. I arrested you for the murder of Terry Haslam, Guv.'

Alex looked at Gene, gobsmacked. This was a story she hadn't heard.

Gene stood tall and shook the big copper's hand. 'So you did, you bastard. What you doing out here in the wild west, then, Teale?'

'Married a local girl.'

'So this little party makes a pleasant change from sheep shaggers and pissed tourists, does it?'

'All the better for seeing you, Guv. Heard you'd gone south.'

'You make it sound like I've had a prolapse. Manchester doesn't have a monopoly on scum, Sergeant Teale. DI Drake and I have come to relieve you of a London sewer rat, name of David Bartholomew, and I discover you've let him get hold of a gun and a hostage.'

'To be fair, Guv, he brought the gun with him, and the hostage is his brother Euan. Dai's a Welsh sewer rat, actually, but he went to London because Euan told him to piss off or get…'

'_Guv_…' Alex took off, running towards the house, where the front door had crashed back on its hinges. Gene was on her heels, pulling his gun from its holster, as Bartholomew emerged, holding an automatic pistol to his brother's head, yelling at the uniforms, his words inaudible over the shouting of nervous policemen. Alex skidded to a halt by the bonnet of the nearest patrol car, her hands held wide to show she was unarmed. 'David… Dai… Don't do anything you'll regret. Let's…'

The gunman screamed at her, waving his gun at the waiting officers before putting the barrel back against his brother's neck. 'Shut up, bitch! Get out of my way. Back off, the lot of you!' He edged towards the nearest car, and the local police all moved back a few steps.

The gunman, aged twenty seven, had carved a niche for himself in London's criminal community, dealing in drugs and intimidation on the eastern fringe of the Square Mile over the previous year or so. A week earlier he had shot Bill Scobie, a petty crook who'd said no once too often; Bartholomew had thwarted CID's attempt to trap him in his Wapping rat hole, and a week later turned up in the depths of Wales, twenty miles south of Aberystwyth at the foot of the Cambrian Mountains. Spotted thirty six hours ago going into his brother's house in Tregaron by a keen young plod, news of Bartholomew's presence was relayed back to the Met, and specifically to Fenchurch East. Sergeant Teale's suggestion that they go in mob handed, based on his experience of city criminals, was dismissed by the police inspector in Lampeter, used only to chapel-reared rural criminals. Which is why Gene and Alex were now dealing with the climax of a siege.

Despite the gunman's instructions, Alex stayed where she was, and she was aware of Gene at her side, revolver aimed at Bartholomew's head. She spoke softly to him, keeping her eyes on the hostage taker. 'Gene, put your gun down and step back. Please. You're making him nervous.'

He hissed back at her. 'Fair do's, then. He's scaring the life out of me.' But he lowered his gun, albeit not moving from her side.

'Dai…'

'_Mister_ Bartholomew to you, bitch.'

Gene was seething, but kept his mouth shut. He'd learned to let Alex work her magic, although this piece of scum didn't seem open to her charms.

She was no more than fifteen feet away from him, close enough to see his eyes were bloodshot and his face unshaven. No sleep, probably. Very twitchy, very dangerous. 'Mr Bartholomew. If you put the gun down and let your brother go, we can talk things through calmly. No-one need get hurt. I don't want you to get hurt.'

'You're even more stupid than you look. Now fuck off, or I'll shoot him first,' he ground the gun barrel into Euan's neck, making the hostage flinch and cry out, 'and then you. You won't look so pretty with your brains all over the road.'

Gene was approaching meltdown, pressed against Alex's shoulder, edging forwards, ready to shove her out of the way of a bullet.

Dai Bartholomew shoved his brother against the nearest police car and opened the passenger door. 'Get in, shithead,' he snarled, shoving the hostage into the seat; he trained his gun on Alex, aiming at her upper body, and shouted at Gene. 'I can shoot her before you can take aim. So drop the gun, pig.'

Gene stood still, his gun held at his side.

Bartholomew fired. The bullet smashed into the roof of the patrol car inches from Alex's body, making her yelp. The local bobbies all ducked behind cover, with only Sergeant Teale standing his ground. Gene grabbed Alex. 'You okay?'

'Yes. Fine.'

Bartholomew's sights were back on Alex. 'Drop. The. Gun.'

Gene turned back to face the threat, bent and put his gun on the ground at his feet; as he straightened up he took a step forward and to his right, forcing Alex to stumble back behind him, out of the line of fire.

'Very smooth, filth, but I don't care who I shoot. You'll do. Or him…' Bartholomew swung the gun to aim at a slender, baby-faced constable the other side of the patrol car. 'Now, pigs, take ten steps backwards. Go on, count them. One…'

The uniforms obeyed; Alex put a hand on Gene's arm and tugged. 'Don't wind him up,' she hissed. 'He's not afraid to kill, and it might not be you. _Gene!_'

He ignored her and lifted his chin in defiance. Bartholomew screamed at him. 'One!' Gene glared at him. Bartholomew fired another shot and the police car rocked, a tyre gone. Alex yanked hard on Gene's hand; he moved back.

The Welshman put a hand in his pocket. 'Just so's you don't think I'm going to run out of ammo, I've got two full clips. See? So all you little piggies just stay where you are and I won't have to make any of you squeal.' He fired a third shot, hitting the front tyre of the third police car, then keeping the gun trained on Alex, got into the car beside his brother, started the engine, put the car in gear and released the handbrake, all without taking his eyes or the gun off the police.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw the baby-faced constable creeping forward, then everything exploded into noise and violent motion. Bartholomew fired at the bobby and took off, turning the car like a stuntman; Gene threw himself at the moving car and got his hand on the passenger door handle before the car whipped round and knocked him flying. '_Gene!_' Alex ran to him as the stolen car accelerated east down the tapering street, towards the hills.

Gene, grimacing, was already getting to his feet when Alex reached him. 'You all right?'

He shrugged her off. 'I'm fine. Come on.' The local plods were all clustered round the young constable who was sitting on the ground, face white as milk, blood pouring from a headwound. 'Teale?'

The burly sergeant was on his knees, looking at his young officer. 'He's okay, Guv. Got a new parting. Messy, but no major damage.'

'You okay, son?'

The young plod looked up at Gene and gave him a shaky smile.

'Get him an ambulance, Teale, change the tyre and follow us as soon as you can.'

'What about your hand, Guv?'

Alex noticed it at the same moment. 'Jesus, Gene…'

He looked down. His middle finger was bent back at an impossible angle. 'God…' He was disgusted at the sight, and suddenly felt the pain of it, hit by a wave of nausea.

'You'd better share the ambulance with the youngster. Give me the keys – I'll go after Bartholomew.' Alex tried to take the car keys from his right hand, but he snatched them away.

'Will you, buggery. Get in. A bent finger isn't going to stop me catching that evil little scrote.'

'Don't be ridiculous...' Alex shoved him against the car, fear turned to fury.

'Oi! You trying to finish me off, woman?'

'You can't drive like that.'

'Watch me.' He tried to push past her, but she was immovable.

'How are you going to change gear, let alone steer properly?'

'You can change gear when I tell you.'

'Don't be such a fuckwit. We're wasting time. You choose – stay here, let me twist your finger back in place, or give me the keys. We're going to lose the bastard.'

Gene fumed, and snarled, but didn't resist when Alex grabbed the keys out of his hand and opened the passenger door for him. As she flung herself into the driver's seat, she saw him struggle to shut his door, having to twist forward and reach for the handle with his right hand. 'Impossible bloody idiot man…' She was muttering to herself, but it didn't escape Gene.

'I heard that, Inspector.'

'Good.' She put the car in gear and roared off, tyres spinning on the wet road.

Within three hundred yards, the houses stopped and the road became a single track, two ribbons of potholed tarmac separated by a strip of grass, twisting steeply up through the woods, bald hills looming over them. The wind was fierce, buffeting the car; rain rattled against the windscreen and debris was skittering across their path; it wasn't yet four o'clock, but the stormclouds were shutting out much of what light remained.

'Turn the bloody lights on, Drake, or are you such a cat that you can see in the dark?'

'Thanks, Guv, it hadn't occurred to me.'

'Don't be so proud, Bolly. If you're prepared to take some instruction you might learn something.'

She almost spat, she was so enraged. 'Why you insisted I had to come down here I cannot imagine.'

_Because it meant having time alone with you. Even with a busted finger and probably a busted car, and you yelling at me, it's worth it. _

'The local plods could have caught the bastard and sent him back. But if you had to come, Ray would have been more use to you and you could have talked football, beer and birds _all_ the way down and _all_ the way back, and I wouldn't be driving this bloody car over this appalling road in a fucking storm being driven insane by your patronising chauvinist attitudes.' Alex shot over the first rise, twisting the wheel sharply and touching the brake as the road veered to the left and dipped before the next climb.

'_Jesus_…' Gene grabbed the handle above his door without thinking, and yelped in pain as he hit his injured hand.

'Put your seat belt on. You can hang on to that.'

'Bugger off. If you could drive properly… _Shit!_'

The car skidded round a bend and one side of the hill disappeared, dropping away from Alex's side, angled steeply, straight down to the valley floor two hundred feet below them. The bends smoothed out as the road snaked along the side of the mountain, but it dipped and rose in a long switchback, and twice Gene hit his head on the roof of the car as Alex floored the accelerator, pushing the car over bumps in the vicious little road, avoiding potholes when she saw them in time.

'You damage this car, you pay for it.' Gene snapped. 'You may think you're Divina Galica, love…'

'Oh, shut up.'

'Don't you bloody talk to me like that.'

'Why not? You're behaving like a spoilt brat, Gene.'

He opened his mouth to give her a real blast, but Alex crested a rise and they both yelled as the road dropped away at about forty five degrees, the wheels almost lifting off the ground as the car shot down the long incline; their spines crunched as the road flattened out, then leapt over a tiny bridge and shot upwards again.

'Why am I bloody worrying about a nutter with a gun? You're going to kill us before we catch him!'

Alex braked to a halt and turned on her passenger. 'If you keep this up you'll put us over the edge, you bastard. Your constant _fucking_ carping is distracting me from handling this car on a difficult road. As you can't drive with that injury, you have two choices. Either get out and let me go on alone, or shut up and _let me concentrate_.'

She didn't wait for him to decide, but shoved the car into first gear and took off again without so much as a glance in his direction.

Gene was muttering under his breath, only the occasional expletive reaching her ears; but she set her jaw and ignored him, concentrating on the road, now just a forestry track through the endless hills. Then, round another bend, a signpost at a fork in the road. Alex stamped on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop, scattering gravel. 'Have you got a map, Gene?'

He continued his fluent stream of expletives as he reached back, groping for the road atlas, but Alex gunned the engine and took off without waiting for him. Gene roared with fury as he was flung off balance and hit his injured hand.

'…_the fuck?_ You…'

'Tail lights – there…'

Gene twisted round and looked ahead in time to see two red lights in the distance, higher up the hill.

'Have you got the map?'

'No!'

'Well, get it. You're in the navigator's seat. It would be useful…' Alex growled as she slammed the Quattro through its gears, '… to know where the fuck we are.'

'If we catch this bastard I am going to let him kill you. Twice.'

'Won't even do your own dirty work, eh, Biggus Diccus?'

'Should have left you in the bloody freezer when I had the ch... _Christ!_'

Alex slammed on the brakes, pumping furiously to avoid skidding into the man standing in the middle of the road, his arms out to stop the half-ton of metal coming at him at killing speed. The Quattro rocked on its suspension, and Alex wondered if she was actually having a heart attack, or if it just felt that way.

'It's Euan Bartholomew…'

Alex took off again, peppering the man's legs with gravel. 'The plods can pick him up.'

'God, but you're a heartless bitch.'

Alex clenched her teeth to stop the words she itched to say from leaving her mouth, and counted to ten before she spoke. 'You've said more than enough. Wait till you have something constructive to say, such as advising me where the hell we're going, before you open your mouth again, _sir_.'

Alex drove on to a soundtrack of the snarling engine and the rattle and thump of wheels on the rough surface. They dropped down a series of slopes till they were on the valley floor, the hills towering over them, black against the angry sky.

'_Ssshhhhhhit_…' Gene hissed as Alex stood on the brakes. Twenty feet ahead of them, water raced across the road, or where the road should be: a brook, no more than ten feet across, in spate with the storm water rushing off the mountain. Gene was about to open the door, when Alex took off, straight for the water.

'_Alex… Jeeeesus_…'

The car shot across the bridge, no more than a slab of concrete across the gap, hidden half an inch below the surface of the swollen brook. She didn't even slow down for the following two bridges, cutting through the flood water like a powerboat.

'If he could get across, so could we.' She nodded at the tail lights above them, as she accelerated up the hill. They flew on for miles, in silence; Gene was studying the map, and when they came to another junction, he spoke calmly. 'Turn left. That way,' he gestured right, 'goes to a dead end.'

Alex turned left without comment, and the road – a half decent tarmac road once more, albeit still single track – wound down into an ancient oak forest, the trees stunted and twisted by wind and poor soil, trunks and the surrounding rocks covered in moss. There was a lot of debris in the road, twigs and small branches, mostly, but Alex had to jink round one or two larger bits.

She whipped round another corner and had to show off her cadence braking again; the Quattro came to a halt a foot or so from a sheep, very obviously dead, in the middle of the road. Skid marks led to the stolen patrol car, slewed across the road, its nose crushed against a stunted oak, right indicator light flashing. They got out of the Quattro, Gene pulling his gun from its shoulder holster, approaching the passenger side of the crashed car with caution. The driver was hunched forward over the steering wheel, not moving. Gene held the gun on him with his right hand and nodded to Alex. She pulled the driver's door open; Barthlomew's face was covered in blood, the main wound at his hairline, above his right eye. She put two fingers to his neck, looking for a pulse. She nodded to Gene over the roof of the car. 'Strong pulse.' She felt the wound gingerly. 'Skull doesn't feel broken but he's concussed.'

'Cuff him to the wheel.'

'He's out cold and bleeding, Gene.'

'But you don't know when he's going to come round or how he'll react when he does. Cuff him, Alex.'

Gene put his gun on the roof of the car, then opened the passenger door and picked Bartholomew's gun out of the footwell, stuffing it in his own holster. He went round to the driver's side and peered at the prisoner. 'Murdering bastard. With a bit of luck he'll die before he gets to hospital.'

'Oh, yes, marvellous. "Died in police custody." Not on my record, thanks.'

Gene sighed. 'Is he still bleeding?'

'Yes, a bit.'

'What, then?'

'Wait for uniform to turn up. Why don't you sit in the back of the car and keep an eye on him.'

'Why don't you too?'

'Because I'm going to move your car so the plods don't plough into it as they come round the corner.'

'Good thinking, Bolls.'

She gave him a withering look and stalked off to the Quattro, turning it round and driving back round the corner, parking it at the side of the road with its headlights on. Visible for quite a distance in the pitch black of the hills. She put her hands on top of the steering wheel and dropped her head on to her wrists, exhausted, cold, wet, shaking as she started to come down from the adrenalin rush. Worse, she was hurt by Gene's continual barbs. She was used to their bickering, even quite enjoyed it, when she was in good form. But this had been harsh. Wishing her dead. _I know he didn't mean actually dead, but, at that moment... And 'heartless bitch'? I thought we'd got past all we'd become friends, of sorts._ Now and then, she'd even wondered… The tears came, then. She wept out of exhaustion, and loneliness.

The door was pulled open. 'You all right, Bolly?' He saw her face. 'Bolls?'

_He almost sounds worried, the bastard_. She got out of the car, pushing him aside. 'What's the matter?'

'You tell me. You look awful.'

'Gee, thanks. I meant what's wrong with Bartholomew.'

'Still out cold. You were ages, so I came to find you.'

'You've found me. You can have your car back. I'll sit with Bartholomew.'

Gene shut the Audi's door and started to walk back with her, but she stopped dead, standing in the driving rain, her hair whipping across her face in the gusting wind. 'I'll sit with him. You stay with your beloved car and watch for Teale.'

'He'll see the lights. I'll keep you company.'

'No thanks. I've had enough of you.'

'What?' He looked as though she'd hit him.

'Bartholomew's pond life, but I don't expect anything of pond life. He can't hurt me.' She turned on her heel and left him.

'Alex!'

She got into the back seat of the patrol car and slammed the door, shivering in the dark, keeping watch over the unconscious man in front of her.

In the Quattro, Gene was slumped in the driver's seat with nothing to distract him from the pain of his dislocated finger. Nothing, either, to stop him replaying Alex's words, the image of her tearstained, drawn face, or the look in her eyes before she walked away from him. _Did I really hurt her? What did I say? Teased her about her driving. She's bloody good. Brave_. A sentence went through his head, and the chill went right through him. 'Should have left you in the freezer…' _Did I say that? Hellfire... She can't think I meant it. Surely to god. That was when I knew…_ He put his good hand to his face, unable to face the implications. _You stupid bastard_. Something was squeezing his heart. _She's tired and cold. Must have been scared. I was bloody terrified. She'll calm down._ He stared out into the darkness. _What if she doesn't? What if I've really blown it? Satan's balls. How can I tell her…?_

A pair of headlights came in to view, scudding down a hill in the distance. They vanished, and it was almost five minutes before they reappeared. They flashed, and he flashed back. _Here comes the plodding cavalry._ They slowed as they rounded the corner, and rolled to a halt beside the Quattro. Gene got out of the car, feeling bone weary, nursing his injured hand. The two constables jumped out and ran to the crashed car as Alex got out of it. Gene peered in at Euan Bartholomew, cuffed to the door handle, before he trudged over to the others. Alex was briefing the two officers, looking bedraggled and exhausted. _Still the most beautiful woman I've seen. Brave. Unbreakable. My love._

One of the plods opened the door to get a look at Bartholomew, still unconscious. 'Do you think we need an ambulance, sir?'

'DI Drake?

Alex shrugged. 'To be on the safe side, yes. It doesn't look too bad, but he might have done some damage to his neck or spine; I can't possibly tell if he's got any sort of head trauma apart from the cuts. He's been unconscious for a good while, which isn't a good sign. How long would it take to get an ambulance out here?'

'It's only a twenty minute drive from here, Ma'am, but an ambulance has got to get here first.'

Alex thought for a moment, looked at Gene. 'Your call, Guv.'

'Quicker he's in, quicker he's sorted.'

'Right.' Alex unlocked the cuffs, and eased Bartholomew back in the driver's seat, her hand holding his head straight. He opened his eyes, jackknifed out of the car, shoving Alex backwards and knocking one of the uniforms off balance; amidst all the shouting, he straight-armed the other, jinking round him and taking off down the road like Gareth Edwards down the touchline. As the two plods flew after him, Gene was pulling Alex to her feet with his good arm.

'I'm okay. Don't fuss.'

'Just like a woman to answer a question before it's been asked.' He scrutinised her face, but she turned away from him, leaning on the car, utterly weary, drained by the piercing wind and the rain.

'Stupid. Stupid. You were right. I didn't check.'

'Bolls…' Gene put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.

'Basics, Gene. Don't trust a murderer. We had him secure, and now I let him get away.'

His good hand on her arm, he turned her round. 'Not very far. Look.'

Bartholomew was being dragged back by the two officers, hands cuffed behind his back, struggling and screaming obscenities. Gene opened the front passenger door of the police car. 'Hang on a moment, lads. I'll show you how we keep scum nice and snug. DI Drake, some help, please.'

Alex followed his instructions and pushed the passenger seat right back against Euan Bartholomew's legs, making him squawk.

'Oh, shut up. Now, lads, let's get boyo in.' Dai Bartholomew was pushed into the seat, arms cuffed behind him, and Alex strapped him in with the safety belt. 'This inertia belt has a lot of slack. So DI Drake here will pull the belt until she has enough to loop around your scrawny neck.' He nodded at Alex, and she did as instructed.

'Now, you evil little turd, if you struggle on the way, the nice officer here will brake suddenly, the inertia belt will tighten, and with a bit of luck, will throttle you – or even better, snap your neck like a twig – before you reach the nick. Has that filtered through to your reptilian brain?' He gave a tug on the belt to give the gunman the general idea, then slammed the door on Bartholomew's response.

He walked round to the driver's side and bent to talk to the bobby at the wheel. 'Get someone out here pronto to recover that car. Call the police surgeon in to the station to check DI Drake and sort out my hand, if you would. And we'll need a hotel tonight. We'll be right behind you.' He looked through over Bartholomew, who was glaring at him. 'And you, Max Boyce… when you're tucked up in clink, and the other lifers are gossiping about the nonce who was bested by a woman driver on his home turf, you can say "I know, 'cos I was there".' He slapped the roof of the car to send them on their way, and turned to find Alex standing by the sheep, looking at the poor mangled beast.

'Alex, come away from it. It's beyond help.'

'We can't leave it in the road. It's already caused one accident.' She bent and grabbed its hind legs, and heaved. A Welsh mountain sheep, it wasn't big, as sheep go, but it was dead weight, and its thick fleece was drenched with rain. Alex couldn't budge it.

'Bolls, leave it. The plods will move it when they come for the car.'

She was tugging at the carcass, shifting it about an inch at a time. 'That might be hours. Now for fuck's sake come and give me a hand.'

'A hand is all I've got.' With a sigh, he got hold of one hind leg, leaving Alex with two hands on the other leg. Between them, they dragged the thing six feet to the side of the road. Stepping over it, Alex tripped and went down hard on one knee and both hands on the rough tarmac at the road's edge. Gene hauled her up, only to be shaken off. 'Bolly, for god's sake, let me help you.'

'Leave me be, Gene.' She walked unsteadily to the Quattro and sank into the driver's seat, closing her eyes for the few seconds it took Gene to get into the car.

'Are you all right to drive, Bolls? You're knackered.'

'Yes.'

He reached over and rubbed her shoulder. 'Not far now.'

'Don't touch me, Gene. Don't speak to me. Find some loud music and let me get this nightmare journey over with.'

When they found the station, they found the doctor waiting for them. With admirable lack of comment, he put Gene's finger joint back in place, reducing the pain immediately to almost nothing, and strapped up his hand, giving Gene a bottle of painkillers and instructions for the next few days. Alex's right hand had an angry graze on the heel, full of tarry grit and mud; the doctor cleaned it carefully, but Alex refused a dressing. 'I need a shower more than anything. Give me a dressing and I'll put it on afterwards.'

Gene left the Quattro at the station to be given a thorough check, and they were ferried to the Lion Hotel, given a warm welcome and two of the best rooms. Midweek in mid January, there was plenty of choice.

Alex was swaying on her feet, and Gene took her bag as well as his own, walking upstairs with her.

'See you in the bar at eight, Bolls?'

She didn't speak, just took her bag, unlocked her door, and left him in the corridor.

Eight o'clock came and went, and there was no sign of her. Gene phoned her room – no reply. He went up and knocked on her door. No response. Worried, needing to know she was all right, Gene made the manager let him in.

Closing the door behind him, what Gene saw stopped him in his tracks.

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_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to Wombledon for excellent betaing, as ever. Enjoy the finale._

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She was out cold, and bleeding.

_Alex_… His heart missed a couple of beats until he realised what he was actually seeing. She was curled on the couch, dead to the world – but only asleep, her head tipped forward on a cushion, the curly hair tumbled over her face. In a white towelling robe, there was too much of her flesh showing for his blood pressure, and not enough for his fantasies; the neck gaping, one leg sprawled – more than a hint of heaven. The blood was from a cut on her knee, presumably when she fell over the bloody sheep; she hadn't whinged, not once. _Tough. But not unbreakable_. She'd given him hell, but he couldn't say he blamed her. She'd done a fantastic job, catching Bartholomew. She'd driven his car like a pro, driven herself to exhaustion. _Now look at her._ He was hamstrung with desire and love. Couldn't move. Could hardly breathe. She made some small noise, shifted a little, and he was at her side, needing to do something for her – anything.

'Bolls?' He murmured, his lips close to her ear. 'Alex, come on, love. Let's get you into bed.' He pulled the bathrobe tight around her, and tried to pick her up, but she pushed him away, muttering something, half conscious. 'Bolls, it's me. It's okay. Come on.' He pushed a hand under her legs and the other arm around her back but as tried again to lift her, she woke screaming, flailing at him, fighting who knew what.

In a couple of seconds her eyes focused as she came to consciousness, and recognised him. '_Gene_…' She relaxed for a moment, lying against his chest, weak with relief, before pushing herself upright. 'What's the time?' She sounded muzzy, her voice gruff.

_God, how I want to wake up to that voice every morning. _'Er… about half past eight.'

'Sorry. Must have…'

'You're exhausted. Should go straight to bed.'

'No. Won't sleep. You had dinner?'

'Not without you.'

'Sorry. You must be hungry.'

'Aren't you?'

'Mmm. Bit.'

'Want to see what the metropolis offers?'

She suddenly realised she wasn't wearing much, and was grateful to see she was at least covered up. 'I've sent my clothes down to be washed – they're filthy, and I've ripped my jeans. I've only got leggings and a t-shirt – I can't go out like that. Why don't you go? I'll get a sandwich or something.'

Gene grunted. 'I'm sure they'll send something up. Why don't you get dressed, and I'll order something. We can eat in my room; then when you've had enough you can go straight to bed.' He flushed. 'I mean…'

'I know what you mean. All right, thanks. I'll be over in a minute.'

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'How's your finger?­'

'Fine.'

'Translated from Stoic-speak, that means it still hurts.'

'Nothing like before. It's fine.'

They'd made short work of the food sent up from the underemployed kitchen, and were feeling the welcome effects of their third glass of wine, still sitting at the little table in Gene's room. They'd not said much as they ate, both tired, feeling awkward after the furious chase. Regretting what had been said. Now the wine had relaxed them, it was easier to talk.

'You're bloody tough, Gene. It must have been excruciating. I dislocated my shoulder falling out of a tree when I was a kid; it was only a few minutes because there were two doctors in the house at the time, but even after they put it back I howled with the pain.'

'It was only because you were in the car that I wasn't howling. I have my pride, Bolls.' He flicked her a wry look; then his eyes dropped, as did his voice. 'I took it out on you instead. Not proud of that.'

'Yes, well… I wasn't exactly sympathetic. It wasn't your fault. It scared me, Bartholomew spraying bullets around, and seeing you knocked over; having to drive your damned car over that road. Being angry let me forget I was petrified.'

'_You_ were petrified…'

'I knew you'd kill me if I damaged the car, so I had nothing to lose, did I? Thought I might as well try and catch the bastard, then at least the Chief Super would deliver my funeral address.' She looked up through her lashes to find him with a sardonic smile on his face.

'Who taught you to drive like that?'

'My first proper boyfriend was a rally driver.'

Gene grunted. 'When you say "proper"…?'

'Improper, I suppose.'

'How old was he?'

'Twenty seven.'

'And you?'

'Eighteen. I learned a lot from him.'

'I bet you bloody did. Bet he enjoyed teaching you, and all. Dirty bastard.'

There was an awkward silence.

'I was impressed, Bolly. You drive well.'

'For a woman.'

He looked at her, narked. 'You drive well, full stop. You don't take compliments well, do you, Alex?'

'I'm not used to them from you.' She softened the jibe with a smile, reaching across and touching his injured hand briefly. For a moment she met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes knocked the breath out of her. She blinked, and looked away, trembling, until she could pull herself together. _No more one night stands. Especially not with this man._ She knew he'd not turn her down again, knew he wanted her. But she didn't want a fling with Gene Hunt. It would be the gossip of the division, and the minute it was over she'd be the one to transfer out. _I'd be a challenge for every predatory male in the Met from then on. DI Bike_.

She jumped to her feet. 'What's on the box?' She switched it on and looked for the remote, in vain.

'You want to watch telly?' Gene was affronted. 'Am I boring you?' _Shit. Made it too obvious. Embarrassed her._

'No… course not. But we're both tired, and it's Friday night – there must something worth watching. We can put our feet up for a bit.' She flicked over to BBC2 and shouted with delight. _Farty towels_, read the sign to a hotel in Torquay; Gene saw the sign and chuckled. 'Like this. Reminds me of a place I stayed in Sheffield. Unbloodybelievable.'

'Have you seen them all? One of them has the sign saying "Flowery twats".'

'_Flowery twats?_ On the BBC? You're having me on, Bolls.'

'I promise. Flay otters, watery fowls, er, fatty owls, and flowery twats.' Alex settled herself on the bed, feet up, propped against the headboard. Gene's eyebrows arched. _She's on my bed. Not in it, but on it_. He casually went to the other side of the bed and joined her for half an hour of Basil and Sybil Fawlty and their ill-starred establishment; but he stayed well away from her, resisting the instinct to put his arm round her. If he touched her, he wouldn't be able to stop.

It was _Basil the Rat_. Poor lonely Mañuel, longing for something to love, was sold a hamster; the shame of it was that it was no hamster, but a perky brown rat, as Sybil Fawlty pointed out to him.

Mañuel was adamant. _Is hamster, Mrs Fawlty._

_No, Manuel, it's not a hamster, it's a rat._

Gene's laughter was not just infectious, it was addictive. She'd never seen him helpless with laughter; she'd never seen him laugh much at all. The cynical mask dropped, he looked fifteen years younger. _Irresistible_. Weak with lust, Alex got up to pour them another drink, feeling safer with a bit of space between them.

An hour and a bottle of wine later, they'd settled down to Clint Eastwood, hat, poncho, gunbelt, spurs, cigar. Moody light, tumbleweeds. _High Plains Drifter_. Gene's idea of paradise on the small screen. Alex turned her head to see him transfixed, but what she saw was his head tipped back against the headboard, mouth slightly open, fast asleep. _Good god. Sleeping through a western… must be completely exhausted_. Her heart lurched. _No wonder. It's been a hell of a day._ She rubbed his arm comfortingly and spoke quietly. 'Gene, come on, you should go to bed.'

He dragged his head up, eyes half open, barely awake. 'Watching this,' he muttered.

'At least watch lying down. You'll be more comfortable. Come on.' She took the empty glass from his hand and tugged gently till he wriggled down to lie full length. She made to get up and throw a blanket over him, meaning to go back to her own room, but he tapped her arm. She turned back to see him looking up at her, blinking sleepily, trying desperately to stay awake.

'Watch with me, Bolls,' he murmured. 'Good film. C'mon. Get comfy. Won't bite.' He flung his arm out across the bed, inviting her to use it as a bolster.

_Oh, help._ His eyes had closed, and Alex felt herself yielding to the warm, strong temptation. _Ten minutes_. She gave in and lay down on her side, her head on Gene's shoulder, her arm across his chest. He grunted contentedly and curled his arm round her, holding her safe.

Gene was woken by a kick on his ankle. He opened his eyes to a mass of brown curls. _Bolly. Christ_. She was curled into him, his arm draped over her, her hand on his, gripping his wrist as she wriggled back against him. It was cold, and they were still lying on top of the bed; the chill didn't seem to have affected his body that much – his erection was hot enough. The lights were still on, the TV hissing; it might have been two o'clock or six, but he couldn't see his watch without disturbing Alex. He should take her back to her own room so she could sleep properly, but he couldn't bear to let her out of his arms. _Christ, I want to touch her. Kiss her. Love her._ But by some miracle after the way he'd treated her, she'd trusted him, let herself relax with him, fallen asleep in his arms_. And if I break her trust she'll never let me within six feet of her again._ He dropped the lightest of kisses on her temple and gently pulled away from her, but her grip on his hand tightened and she grumbled quietly. The sleepy sound made him smile, and he yearned to kiss her awake, see the desire bloom in her eyes, feel her skin against his... He shifted uncomfortably, his erection demanding attention. _Jesus. Got to move_. He bent his head and whispered into her ear. 'Bolls – come on, love, let go of my hand.' Gingerly, he twisted his wrist to loosen her grip, but she mumbled and turned on to her back, the t-shirt rucking up round her midriff showing firm flesh. His hand finally free, Gene could move away, but he was pinned by the sight of her lying beneath him; the feel of her body touching his from shoulder to shin. If she woke now, he'd be toast. _But if I never get this close again… want to soak her up, breathe in her scent, watch her lips move as she dreams_. He touched his fingertips to her face, the lovely naked face, tiny freckles on her forehead, the mouth that promised everything. 'Love you.' He breathed the words against her forehead, then rolled away from her, careful not to disturb her. But she felt the loss of him, muttered, frowning, reaching for him. It took all his willpower not to go back to her; he folded the heavy coverlet over her, tucking it in so she'd feel warm and secure. He switched off the TV, took a last look at Alex asleep in his bed, picked up her room key and the half full wine bottle, then turned the light off, closing the door behind him with barely a click.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Alex realised, in quick succession, that she was fully clothed, that she was in – or on – Gene's bed, and that she was alone. She squinted at her watch, and groaned. Nearly ten. She lay for a moment longer, remembering. One hell of a day. When had Gene left? She got up – no sign of him having been in the bathroom. She went across to her room. Ah. So he had left her. The bed had been slept in; the empty wine bottle and dirty glass were on the floor, and a wet towel was slung on the chair, the smell of wet soap in the bathroom. So where was he?

Sharp rap on the door. 'Bolls?' He was right there.

She opened the door to find him holding a carrier bag out to her. 'Thought these might do for today. Hope they're okay. Take 'em back if not.'

She peered inside. Clothes. Trousers, jersey, jacket. Surprised, she looked at him. 'Thank you. How…'

'My suit was a wreck, so I went to get these.' He was wearing black cords and a long sleeved rugby shirt, black with a white collar. 'Thought you'd need something too. Had to guess your size.'

'Don't think I've ever seen you in anything but a suit.' _And you look gorgeous_. She stepped back, inviting him in.

He came into the room, but left the door open. 'I'll swap 'em if they're wrong. Shop's just across the street. No problem.'

She pulled the clothes from the bag. Dove grey wool trousers, well cut; unstructured jacket in a soft grey tweed; cowl neck jersey in a soft cloudy blue. Pretty; timeless. Right size, too. She fingered the jersey, looked at the label. 'Gene – this is cashmere…'

'You don't like it.' He reached for it.

'Cashmere? Course I do. It's beautiful. Not something I buy every day, that's all.'

'They're all right, then? Woman in the shop thought they'd do.'

She smiled at him. 'Yes, Gene, they're perfect. It was very thoughtful of you.' She looked in the bag. 'Where's the receipt? I'll give you a cheque.'

'No, Bolls. My fault your things got wrecked.' He was at the door. 'I'll get them to bring you up some breakfast. I'm going round to the garage, and I'll nip into the station and see if Bartholomew's ready to receive visitors. Back in half an hour.' Without giving her chance to reply, he was gone.

Thirty five minutes later the phone rang – he was downstairs, waiting for her; his face softened when he saw her walking down to him.

'You approve?' She held her hands out, presenting her new look.

He grunted, nodding once. 'You'll do.'

When Alex had looked at herself in the mirror upstairs, she'd wondered at Gene's choice. Feminine, classic, understated. Not her usual style. Not in 1982, anyway. Oddly, it's what she might have worn in 2008. Different hair, less make-up… Grown-up. _So is that what he wants me to be? I thought he liked me tarty. _When she saw his reaction, she felt her heart turn over. Felt almost shy under his gaze. She slipped a hand under his arm. 'Where now? Back to the station?'

'Nope. Quack says Bartholomew's too badly concussed to be questioned till tomorrow. Seems he tripped and fell on his way down to the cells.'

Alex stopped and pulled her arm from his. 'Gene…'

'Don't give me that look, Alex. He shot one of their officers. PC Carter's the youngest in the division. Bartholomew aimed at his head – he meant to kill him, or didn't care one way or the other. Carter's colleagues didn't like that.'

'No, but…'

'He got a bit of rough treatment, Bolls. No lasting damage. Police surgeon's taking care of the nasty murdering little bastard. Bartholomew will stand trial in one piece, and the British taxpayer will pay for his keep and care for the next twenty five years, more's the pity.' He reclaimed her arm, and they walked through to the foyer.

'Where are we going, then?'

'Got the day off, Bolls. Enforced leisure. Bugger all to do round here except admire the views, count sheep, and sample the local produce. As you've near as dammit destroyed my car, Inspector Haskins has got his pet grease monkeys to see if it can be resurrected, and is arranging for us to borrow a pool car. He's given me directions to a pub out in the sticks – proper beer, open fire, home-cooked nosh. Unless there's something else you'd rather do.' He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

She looked back, and tilted her head, considering. A day with Gene, just the two of them – no agenda, no pressure. _Could be interesting._ 'No, sounds good to me. Lead on, MacDuff.'

They ambled through the narrow streets towards the police station, stopping now and then to peer at shop windows: fishing tackle, fishmonger, antiques, books, saddlery, butcher, hardware – small town needs and wants. Then, just before they reached the station, an art gallery. In the narrow window, a predictable watercolour of sheep on hills, a seascape in acrylics, and a display table of quirky jewellery. Alex dragged him in. 'Five minutes. I just want to ask...'

In fact, it was Gene who delayed them, looking at a series of little oil paintings, no more than six inches by four, some even smaller; all of birds and animals, each was a single creature set against a mottled background – a barn owl, a sheep, a weasel, a cock pheasant. Up close, each was a muddle of paint daubed in rough, thick strokes, but from a few feet away, it coalesced into an individual character, every detail clear. Gene was bobbing back and forth, trying to work out how it could happen. He called to Alex. 'Bolls – come and look at these.'

The gallery manager, a young woman with pink hair, saw Gene dancing around in front of the tiny pictures, and she walked across with Alex.

'Do these interest you, sir?'

'How does he do that?'

'The artist? Magic, sir. He'll be here tonight, so you can ask him yourself if you can come back at about six. Maldwyn Rhys, his name is.'

'Okay. If we're here.' Gene noticed what Alex had in her hand: an oddly-shaped pendant of unpolished white and grey rock laced with golden flecks and streaks, hung on a chain of fine open gold links. 'What've you got there, Bolls?'

She showed him. 'Welsh gold ore. Mined… did you say last year?' She looked questioningly at the gallery manager, who nodded. 'Bonanza gold ore, mined in 1980 at Clogau.'

Alex handed the pendant back to her. 'Beautiful. Never seen anything like it. Thank you.'

At the station, Inspector Haskins had got them an unmarked Rover. 'Need to talk you through the controls, sir. PC Chisholm here will show you.'

Gene waved his strapped-up hand. 'DI Drake's driving. Need some fags.' He scarpered, leaving Alex to be introduced to the perfectly ordinary Rover.

'Sorry about this, Ma'am, but round 'ere rules is rules.' The middle-aged constable took her through the motions as fast as possible, and excused himself.

Gene was back with his ciggies by the time she was ready, and twenty minutes later, after a scenic drive down the river Wye, they parked outside the Seven Stars in Aberedw; a little pub right at the end of the village, it perched at the top of a sharp drop to a wooded valley, laced by a stream noisy with the previous day's rain.

The Seven Stars had a flagstone floor, huge fireplace burning enormous logs, with a motheaten dog snoring on the motheaten hearthrug; beaten up oak tables, venerable looking settles and windsor chairs, venerable locals supping at tankards. There was a stuffed eagle owl in one corner, and an impressive salmon in a glass case, underpinned by a fishing rod from the days before polymers. Early photographs of the pub, the village and long-dead locals hung on the walls; other than that, the walls and beams were unsullied by brass, willow pattern or dried flowers. The comforting smells of beer, food and smoke wreathed about them, and having sunk his first pint of Penrhos bitter, Gene lit up to add to the Sunday cocktail of aromas, then scrunched up the packet and tossed it into the fire. 'What's your cider like, Bolls?'

'Good. Strong. I didn't know Bulmer's made real cider – thought it was all fizzy mass market stuff. Try it.'

He took a draught and made appreciative noises. 'Not half bad, that. Must be about eight per cent, though. If you're driving us back you'd better not have too many of them.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'Worried about the paintwork?'

'On that old banger? Sod that. Worried about my skin, Bolly. You're a lethal weapon behind the wheel.'

Before she could riposte, the girl arrived with their food. Gene had ordered for her, and they were both presented with enough lunch to fuel an assault on the Eiger. Roast Welsh lamb and every imaginable trimming, so beautifully cooked that as Alex lay slumped against the cushions, she thought seriously about arresting the chef for GBH. 'God…' She groaned, her stomach protesting at the enforced overtime. 'I haven't eaten this much since my divorce.'

Gene sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. 'He still around, your ex-husband?'

'No.' Alex frowned, struggling to get her head round it. She was, or would be, married in 1995. She suddenly remembered. 'Good god. It was my wedding anniversary on Tuesday.'

'You don't talk about him.'

'No. Best forgotten. You've never said anything about your wife, either.'

'I'll tell you if you tell me.'

She shrugged. 'Not very pleasant listening. I don't come out of it well.'

'Me neither.'

'Why, then?'

'You've been here – well, with me… with the team – for six months and I know bugger all about you.'

'Um… well, I got married fourteen years ago.'

'Summer of love? Were you a hippy chick with flowers in your hair?'

'Funnily enough, we were married on a beach in California. And I did have flowers in my hair.' She smiled at him. 'But it was more like the winter of discontent. I met him on the rebound. I'd not been in the force long, and was the police witness at the magistrates' court against a rich American bitch who'd been caught drinking and driving. Robert was representing her. We were married two months later. Crazy.' She was staring into the fire; Gene watched her intently.

'Molly was born the following year, in July. Robert was a jealous man. Wanted to know my every move. Didn't like me having friends of my own, or going anywhere without him. When our daughter was born, he felt pushed out, neglected. I was so tired I didn't notice he'd started an affair until that Christmas, when his mistress phoned the house. That one ended, but he had others. He came back late and drunk on my twenty fifth birthday, and I could smell her on him. We started fighting, and it got worse than usual. He hit me; knocked me down.'

'Alex…' Gene murmured.

'When he went to work the next day I took Molly and went back to my godfather's house. Robert was very contrite, swore blind it wouldn't happen again, begged me to come back, blah blah. And like a fool, I agreed, as long as he got therapy; we moved to the States for a fresh start. He got a job as an associate with a big shot law firm in Washington DC, and I got my secondment to the CIA across the river in Langley. It was all right for about a year, but on Molly's third birthday it happened again. Just a slap this time, not a fist…'

'_Just_ a slap? Bastard…'

'Quite. But I had nowhere to go, no money of my own, so I stayed. A couple of months later I found out about his latest affair. I wasn't looking, didn't want to know, but one of Robert's friends told me, the interfering bastard. Then the woman herself turned up at the house, and I threw her out; she whined to Robert, and he came home and laid into me. I ended up in ER with two broken ribs and needing seven stitches where I cracked my head open on a door handle.'

Gene reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing tight for a moment.

Alex took a deep breath. 'Anyway, I came home.'

'How?'

'I had more friends than I realised, especially at work. Molly and I stayed with my boss's family for three weeks while my ribs mended, and someone at the CIA must have had a quiet word with Robert, as he was suddenly very keen to help, and very generous over money. He even paid all the costs of the divorce.'

Gene grunted. 'Cheaper than losing his career when he gets thrown in clink for assault.'

'Somewhat. He's working in Los Angeles these days, earning a large fortune as a divorce lawyer. Nice irony, eh?'

'Does…'

Gene was interrupted by the pub landlord, who was looking sheepish. 'Sorry, madam, sir, but we're closing up now. We're going to the wife's aunty's birthday party in Dolgellau, see, and we've got to be there by three thirty...'

'We need some exercise, anyway, after that fabulous lunch. Our compliments to the chef.' Alex smiled, and handed him a ten pound note.

Gene waved another tenner at him. 'My shout. Give the lady back her cash.'

'No, Gene, please. Landlord, take no notice of him.' She gave the poor man her highest wattage smile, and he caved in with profuse thanks.

Outside, Gene was still arguing about the bill for lunch. Alex put a hand on his arm. 'Gene, it's just lunch; a gesture to say thank you for these clothes, and sorry for being such a witch yesterday.'

He thought for a moment, pulled a disapproving face, and kissed her cheek before striding off down the hill, coat flapping. 'Come on, Bolls – work off some of that lunch.'

She caught up with him, and they wandered over the stream and up through the woods. 'Your turn, Gene.'

'What's that, Bolls?'

'Tell me about your wife.'

He sighed. 'Where do you want me to start?'

'I'm tempted to sing, but I'll save your ears. Let's start at the very beginning. What's her name?'

'Ruth.'

She had to prompt him again. 'How old were you when you got married?'

'Nineteen. She was a year younger. Too bloody young, both of us. She was pretty, little Ruthie. Lived in the next street to us. Used to walk her home from school. The Thompsons were kind. Happy. Our house wasn't a barrel of laughs, so I spent more and more time at her house. Seemed obvious that we'd get married; after National Service, when I became a copper and started earning, we got wed. Couldn't afford our own house for six years, but we did better living with her parents. Things started going wrong when we were on our own. I'd got promotion, and a year after that I got into CID.'

They'd got to a gate; in the field was a solitary black sheep, standing ten yards away, staring at them. '_Me-eh-eh_.'

'What d'you want, you stupid animal?' Gene got no response.

'I'll ask. _Meh-eh-eh_?'

'_Meh-eh_.'

Gene turned his back on the two females, hands on his head in a gesture of despair. 'Oh, joy. Now they're talking to each other.' He turned back to find two pairs of eyes trained on him. He peered at Alex. 'D'you know what, Bolls? There's an uncanny resemblance. Dark curly hair, the same insolent stare, the same amount of common sense…' The sheep turned her head at a noise in the hedgerow. '… and exactly the same profile.'

Alex angled her head to match the sheep's. 'Do you think she's prettier than me?'

'Huh. She doesn't talk as much.'

'She's a good listener.' Alex tucked her hand under his arm. 'Finish the story, Gene.'

He sighed. 'Hoped you'd heard enough.'

She smiled. 'It's important. Tell me the rest. Please.'

He stared at the churned up grass at their feet for a few moments, thinking. 'When I went to CID in Brutal Street, Ruthie'd already had three miscarriages. We stopped trying then. I didn't mind not having kids, but it's what you did, wasn't it? Got wed, had kids, saddled yourself with a mortgage and worked till you dropped. Ruthie was desperate, though. Born to be a mum, and I couldn't give her what she had every right to expect.' He dropped his head, remembering the tearful recriminations.

Alex leaned against him, but said nothing.

'I let the job take over. Worked hard, got promoted again in a couple more years. Spent most nights in the pub with the lads, went home stinking of the boozer. I didn't understand what marriage was about. Thought keeping the streets safe was the best thing I could do for her. That and a bit of pin money on top of the housekeeping. Didn't have a bloody clue.'

Alex shivered. Gene tugged her arm. 'It's getting dark. Let's head back.' They meandered back along the path, still arm in arm. 'When I was made up to DCI it just got worse. She wasn't interested in me, so I started seeing other women. I didn't think she knew, or would care. But I must have hurt her. I don't mean I ever hit her. Never came close, however bitter the rows got. Honest, Bolls. Couldn't…'

'I know.'

'Why she went when she did, I've no idea. Just had enough, I suppose. Can't think of anything specific that I did to send her off. But off she went, and then Sam got himself killed, the twat. So it seemed the time to move on, and the job at Fenchurch East came up. The rest you know.'

She wanted to ask him more, get inside his head. But for him to tell her this much was a bit of a miracle. She stopped, pulling him to a halt. 'Gene, I… I hope this goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. What you've told me stays between us. Stays out here. In the wild Welsh woods. Between you, me and the gatepost. And the sheep.' She smiled at him. 'And you won't breathe…'

'Not a word, Bolls.'

'Not a great advert for married bliss, are we?'

'Right pair of glums. I need a drink. You sober enough to drive?'

'As a judge.'

'Not much of a recommendation, the judges I know.'

They took the car back to the station and handed the keys in at the front desk. Inspector Carter had gone off duty, but Gene spoke to his oppo and asked to have a squint at Bartholomew.

'I'll see you back at the hotel, Guv.' She left him to it.

Dinner was a lightweight business, both of them still stuffed after lunch. But Gene was not to be denied the pleasure of good food on tap. 'We're on holiday, Bolls. Make the most of it.'

She resisted everything but a starter, but helped Gene work through a bottle of spicy Merlot, and a glass of Sancerre with a few bites of local cheese, so by the time they had subsided into the squashy chairs by the fire with a glass of Armagnac, she was feeling very mellow. She watched Gene gazing at the fire, wondering what he was seeing in the flames, grateful for the rare chance to observe him off guard. _Sex on long, long legs_. She'd long ago admitted that to herself, and had he held a hand out to her at that moment, she'd have allowed him to lead her anywhere he chose to take her. But it wasn't that simple. She longed for his good opinion, felt his smile reach something deep inside her, wanted his trust, his friendship. His love. _Can't fall in love with him. Can't. Mustn't._ Sex was one thing. Love… Everything she knew told her it would be a disaster. Everything she felt told her it was already too late. _Only thing I can do is keep control. Don't have to give in to it. Think of Molly. _Something inside her rebelled_. But what about me?_ She remembered something Gene once said to her. 'Be a mother, Alex.' _Hang on to that_. Hang on to the absolute reality of her child, and remember that Gene Hunt was only in her head. A fantasy. _Impossible_.

Lost in the dance of the flames, Gene was – had she but known it – shadowing her thoughts. _Impossible. Her, love me? Don't be so bloody stupid_. He'd caught a look in her eyes today, a softness that might mean she'd give in to… what… Curiosity? Loneliness? A few months ago he'd have taken his chance. Anything to have her, on any terms. But one night was never going to be enough for him now. Wanted all of her, heart and soul as well as her beautiful body. Yesterday he saw her courage, skill, strength. Today he'd seen a whole new side of her, someone he'd trusted with his past, his worst failure; and she'd not condemned him for it. _Seemed to understand_. And she'd confided in him. Not what he'd ever expected from her. The afternoon of confidences and affection had been something new; he wasn't used to friendship with a woman. _That's what she wants, then. A friend. Maybe here, away from the real world, with no-one watching our every move. But back in London?_

Even that wouldn't be enough. What would it be like, to look up from the fire to see his wife there? _Mrs Alex Hunt_. To have all that beauty and warmth and courage to himself. _My love_.

But it was impossible.

_Can still enjoy the company, though_. They caught each other's eye, and pretended not to notice the flash of feeling that slipped under the defences.

'Got the paper there, Bolls? What's on the box?'

They walked upstairs, arguing about what to watch. Gene was pushing for _Get Carter_ on BBC2. 'Saw Clint Eastwood last night, Bolls. Wouldn't you like some nice British crooks for a change?'

'_Two Mules for Sister Sarah_,Gene…Got to be your idea of heaven. Apart from Clint, there's a tarty nun, pretty señoritas, gunfights and explosions. What's not to love?'

He wagged his head, reconsidering. 'Reminds me of you, Bolls.'

'The prostitutes, I suppose?'

'Heaven forfend, Bolly.'

'Well, I've never been undercover as a nun.'

'I was thinking of the mule.'

She flicked his ear, and he yelped, laughing as he ducked out of her range.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sprawled on the bed, lying on her front, propped on her elbows, Alex was absorbed in the film. Gene, pouring scotch into two glasses, watched her surreptitiously; the long slope of her back, the peachy arse and slender legs. _Her gorgeous tits in that soft blue wool. So soft…_ _She must know how much I want her, for god's sake_. He handed her a glass and settled himself on the floor, leaning back against the bed, so he didn't have to see her, wouldn't be distracted by thoughts of running his hands… He shifted uncomfortably, tried to concentrate on the film. Shirley MacLaine was shoving an arrow through Clint's shoulder with burning gunpowder to cauterise the wound. _Good. Lots of pain. Lots and lots of bad burning pain._ Then the attempt to blow up the bridge. _Concentrate, Clint. Brilliant shot. Kaboom._ The train fell in exquisitely slow motion to the river bed, the trestle bridge blown to smithereens. _Great film, this_. He was hooked, Alex banished to the back of his mind for a short while. Till Shirley took off her wimple and got Clint's tongue down her throat, at which point Gene got up and grabbed the whisky bottle and sloshed scotch into his glass.

The memory of telling her the gruesome story of his marriage hit him suddenly. _Why the fuck did I tell her all that? Stupid bastard. Let me tell you just how shite a man I am, Alex. Will you marry me now? How can I be her friend when I love her, want her so much?_

He threw the whisky down his throat. Her telling him about her bastard of a husband made him long to hold her, wrap her in his arms and keep her safe. But he wanted to possess her, too – make her cry out for him. _She's lying on my bed, she's right there behind me, so close I could reach back and touch her. Lying there, stretched out, drunk enough to let me make love to her. And she'd regret it in the morning. And I'd know, then, know how she feels against my body, how she moves when I'm inside her, how she sounds as she comes. And I'd have to wait till she was drunk and lonely and a long way from home before she'd come near me again._ He took a long swallow of whisky. _It burns now, wanting her, but it would burn worse after, knowing._ He poured more Scotch: if he drank enough it would be academic, for tonight anyway. They'd drive back to London in the morning, and life would get back to normal.

In Mexico, village children and nuns were putting Clint's _piñata_ bomb against the barracks gates, and Shirley was getting ready to distract the Spanish _capitan_, the best way she knew how.

Alex was leaning on her crossed arms, watching the man just inches away from her as much as she watched the TV screen, and with more interest. I should move, get away from him. Too close…

_What would Gene do if I tried the same trick on him now? He wouldn't say no, would he? He's been waiting for his chance for long enough. Thought he'd try last night. Wouldn't have stopped him if he had. Want him. Want his strength and warmth. Want to take away the sadness he tries to hide. Want to hear him laugh, bask in that amazing smile._ She gazed at the back of his head, his neck, as he sat on the floor in front of her, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, arm resting on his knee. She willed him to turn to her, turn those eyes on her. But he only wanted whisky and the wild west. _He's getting pissed._ _Doesn't seem to remember I'm even here. Would that be the pattern? Me wondering how soon he'd get bored and move on?_

She thought back over the last twenty four hours; laughing, relaxed together, talking, confiding. More than getting on, more than not fighting. Friends. Close. _Don't kid yourself, not again. We had a tough day yesterday, and we've been away from work, from the things we argue about. Don't assume it means anything. That's the way to get hurt. Have another drink and go to bed. _She stirred, body and soul wanting something else entirely.

As Gene poured himself yet another shot, Alex held her empty glass out, nudging his shoulder. 'Hey, what about me?'

He took her glass and poured her another, but as he turned to give her the drink, he noticed her hand. Putting the glass on the floor, he took her hand in both of his and brushed his fingers over the graze. '_Alex_...' His voice was barely audible; she could barely breathe. Couldn't move. He touched her arm, stroked his palm over the cashmere sleeve; brought her hand to his lips, kissed the damaged flesh once, twice. Pressed a passionate kiss into her palm, his eyes closed. Then he dropped her hand as though it had burned him, and he staggered to his feet.

'It's late, Bolls. Long drive tomorrow. Get some sleep.'

_If I let him throw me out now, we'll never get another chance like this._ 'Dammit, Gene. Why do you have to become the perfect gentleman at the precise moment I want you to be anything but?' Alex got up off the bed, took his wrist in one hand, and slid the other round his neck. 'I don't need sleep – I need you.'

'We're going back to London in the morning.'

'It's a long, long time till morning.'

'Alex…' He tried to detach himself from her, but Alex had had enough of sense. She pressed closer to him, close enough to feel him respond to her. She kissed his jaw, her fingers stroking his neck, then pushed her fingers into his hair and took a fistful, as she looked deep into his eyes. 'Surrender, Mr Hunt.' She stepped backwards, pulling him with her. 'You're going down.'

He held himself back for a few seconds more, but he knew he was lost. Her body, soft and lithe, moulded against his; a mouth to send a cardinal to perdition; her eyes… 'Alex_. Christ, Alex…_' As he touched his lips to hers, he was overwhelmed by the tide of feeling that stripped away every last defence. _The taste of her… god, how I've wanted this…_

She was shattered by his kiss, the power of it, unleashed. _No control. No stopping it. God. God…. Gene…_

They fell on to the bed, and stopped thinking; frenzied kisses, clothes scattered, hands and mouths on naked flesh, bodies demanding release after so many months of waiting.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Alex lay propped on one elbow, gazing at the man lying beneath her, tracing the lines of his face with one finger. 'Why have we wasted so much time?'

'Wasted time, Bolls? It hadn't occurred to me before now.' He touched his thumb to her lips. 'This wasn't my idea – you jumped on me, if you remember. Twice. You ever satisfied? ' He tried to look severe, but couldn't keep the smile from creeping across his face.

'So all those burning looks…'

'Indigestion, Bolly. Or thinking about my in-tray.'

'Ahh… So I needn't have bothered?'

'I wouldn't say that.' He ran a hand over her arse.

Alex grinned at him, and dropped a kiss on his smiling mouth. 'But you're not convinced?'

'Not yet. But if you work hard at persuading me, you never know.'

'How long do you think it'll take?'

'Hmmm. Years, Bolls. Twenty, thirty…'

'Life sentence.'

'Mm-hmmm. No parole. You're in my custody now, love.' Gene pulled her down to him, and kissed her with a tenderness that pierced her heart.

She hadn't meant to say it, hadn't known for sure. But the words came unbidden, from somewhere very deep. 'I love you, Gene…'

'You crying, Bolls? It's all going to be fine. You're meant to be happy.' He kissed her tears away, which only made them fall faster.

'Don't know why I'm crying. Can't believe it. Sorry…'

'It's okay, Alex. I love you just as much when you're wet.' His voice dropped to a growl. 'Especially your flowery twat.'

She threw her head back and laughed; Gene hugged her tight and kissed her throat. She felt something stir, and reached down a hand to investigate. 'What's that?'

He spoke between kisses, in an atrocious Spanish accent. 'Ees hhhamster.'

'Feels more like the giant rat of Sumatra.' She could feel him smile against her skin as he nibbled along her jawline. Alex giggled, then gasped. 'It's a lively one.'

'Ees looking for burrow...'

xxxxxxxxxxx

Four weeks later, on Saturday the thirteenth, Alex and Gene had retired early from the mob at Luigi's, retreating up to the second floor flat. It had been a difficult day, dealing with a young family whose parents had tried to kill each other under the influence of alcohol and jealousy.

They'd needed to wash away the shadows with the team and a bottle of Luigi's best red, but within an hour they'd had enough. Alex went up first, and Gene tried to sneak off ten minutes later.

'You off out, Guv?'

'I'm on a promise, Raymondo.'

'New bird, then?'

'Night, Ray.'

By ten he was with Alex in her bed, and by midnight they were blissfully exhausted, limbs heavy, the week's demons exorcised, all barriers down; they lay quiet, wrapped round each other and tangled in the sheets.

Alex was tracing little circles on his chest, her head on his shoulder. 'Are you happy, Gene?'

'Do bees buzz? Why do you need to ask, Bolls?'

'Not just in bed. Every day, underneath your skin. Even if we argue, or we have crap to deal with, like today.'

'If happy is having to keep the grin off my face in case the team think I've flipped, or stopping myself from whistling in the office, or resisting giving everybody a pay rise, then, yes, my love, I'm happy. Haven't really got a benchmark. Never felt like this before.'

'Me neither.'

'I'm going to have to change my name. These days I'm DCI Dunhunting. Found what I've been looking for.'

She'd thought she couldn't love him any more. She was wrong. But before she could tell him, Gene was out of bed, fishing something out of his coat pocket, which he brought back to bed with him. Checking his watch briefly, he kissed Alex. 'It's Sunday. Happy Valentine's Day, love.' He held out a blue box about three inches square. She opened the box, and pinned to a velvet pad was the Welsh gold ore on its delicate chain. She smiled as she looked down at it for ages, touching the gold scattered through the milky quartz, and a tear dropped on to the stone. Gene put a finger under her chin so he could see her face.

'You're crying again – you're meant to be pleased.'

'I'm more than pleased, my love. I'm crying because I don't know what else to do with all the feelings I have for you.' Sitting up, she picked up the pendant and held it out to him. 'Put it on for me.'

'Won't look as good on me, Bolls.'

Smiling, she leaned over and kissed him, then turned round and held up her hair so he could put the chain round her neck. He kissed her nape, then fastened the clasp, caressing her shoulders, and pulling her back to lean against him so he could look at the stone lying on her skin, the gold catching the light.

Alex twisted her head so she could see his face. 'It'll remind me of you.'

'What, rough and out of shape?' He kissed her eyebrow.

She grinned, and put a hand up to stroke his hair. 'Complex, beautiful, natural, unique.'

'Give over.' His voice cracked, and his face gave him away.

Alex scrambled out of bed and disappeared; she was back in a trice, carrying a box. 'Was going to give it to you at breakfast, but…' Wrapped in shiny white paper, it was a twelve inch cube, and when she put it on the bed in front of Gene, he saw she'd drawn a big heart with an arrow through it, and their names. 'You soft, dippy tart.' He smiled up at her mistily; it had been a very long time since he'd been given anything so unashamedly romantic. Even longer since he'd been so deeply touched by such a gesture.

'You haven't even opened it yet.' Alex scooted back under the covers, the gold pendant glittering as it bounced and swayed between her breasts, the movement entrancing Gene.

'I think I need to open you.'

'In a minute. Open your present.'

Inside the box was another box, and inside that was a lot of newspaper. Gene frowned at her. 'There's nothing in here.'

'Oh, there is, Gene. You just have to look a bit harder. Like I had to do with you.' He looked at her, puzzled.

'Took me a while to realise there was more to you than met the eye. You keep yourself well hidden, Mr Hunt.'

Gene's smile started as a dimple, and spread across his face as he realised what she was on about. He searched the box more carefully, and it didn't take long to find the package taped to one side; no more than two inches thick, it was about eight inches square, and wasn't heavy. Gene shook it, but it was silent. He peered at Alex, eyes narrowed. 'Book?' She shrugged. 'Gloves. Tie.' She said nothing. He had a sudden thought. 'Sex toy.'

She grinned, then. 'You can keep guessing, or you can open it.'

He thought he'd hit on it, so was completely wrongfooted when the packaging revealed a small picture. He turned it over and broke into a broad grin. 'The sheep…' He looked at her, his eyes shining.

'The sheep. Look at the back.'

Gene turned the painting over again; there was a piece of card pasted to the back, with a message in bold black handwriting. _'For Gene Hunt, to commemorate his Welsh epiphany.'_ It was signed _Maldwyn Rhys_ with the date _16__th__ January 1982_.

'So that's where you snuck off to. Sneaky, devious woman.'

'Sneaky is best. Anyway…' She picked up her gold chain and jiggled the pendant. 'Er… "need some more fags"?'

It was his turn to shrug.

Alex kissed his sulky mouth. 'Do you still like it?'

'Love it. Love you.'

'Still think it looks like me?' She turned her head to match the profile of the sheep, their noses at the same angle. Keeping her head still, she looked sideways at Gene, who had an evil grin on his face. '_Meh-eh-eh_…' She bleated at him.

'One Welsh weekend and I'm a sheepshagger.'

'_Meh-eh-eh…'_

He put the painting down carefully, then flung himself on top of Alex, growling.

Trudging upstairs to his beloved wife, Luigi heard stranger noises than usual from the flat on the second floor. He shook his head in disbelief. He was delighted that his two favourite customers had at last given in to their feelings, but in matters of love, he would never understand the English.

– **the end –**

_A/N: I encountered the amazing road across the mountains exactly 27 years later than this story is set, in exactly these climatic conditions, but sans Quattro, gunman, sheep or the Met's finest. Nor did I try driving the 22 mile road at anything faster than 30ph, at best. It was still quite scary._


End file.
